The Silence of a Kiss
by Dramatricks
Summary: This is from a prompt at the glee angst meme:  How do Rachel and Quinn cope when they get the news that Rachel Berry is going deaf?
1. I Don't Want to Forget

A/N: This is based on a prompt from the glee_angst_meme on LJ: Rachel Berry is going deaf. This chapter is Rachel's POV; the next is Quinn's, and the following is... well, someone else's :)

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It starts when Kurt rolls his eyes at you, after you have to ask him to repeat what he said for a second time. He just shakes his head and says, "Never mind, Rachel." And you want to stop him when he returns to his seat, to explain to him that you heard most of the words, just not _all_, and you don't want to make assumptions because Rachel Berry doesn't do that. (Even though you know you totally do.)

After class, Quinn catches up to you and takes your hand, not caring that she's never done that before in school, and you're staring down at your linked fingers when your left ear barely catches the words.

"You need to go to the doctor."

You go to the ENT first, and Quinn holds your hand in the waiting room, running her thumb along your palm. She ducks her head and bends close, her lips brushing your ear as she whispers how everything will be okay. You just want to cry, because you know it won't: you can barely hear what she's saying.

The doctor checks both your ears and announces that you've ruptured both your eardrums. You remember sinus infections with an excruciating sore throat that seemed to extend from the top of your head to your shoulder, but always shrugged them off since they were gone in a few days. The doctor rattles off words like chronic ear infections, tinnitus, and other words that you don't really care about, just the words she says when she sets you up with an audiologist, and schedules a CT scan.

Quinn punches you lightly in the shoulder and says, "See, told you there was something wrong in your head, Berry."

You smile, for her sake.

You hate these little rooms. Even if you could do what Quinn suggested, and pretend you were in a recording studio, there's no microphone. Just you and the headphones and the little clicky button… thing. A part of you dreams, perversely, of clicking the button and blowing up yourself and the entire audiology department. But Quinn's in the waiting room, and, well, you don't want to blow her up. So you simply click the button when you hear a sound, and hold your hands in your lap when you don't. Briefly you panic because you know it's been at least thirty seconds and you haven't heard anything. Your breath comes in short, sharp rasps and all you can think is that you've failed, you've _failed_ this test.

And you have.

Severe conductive hearing loss.

You stare at the chart, trying to make sense of the little line graphs, and you curse yourself for not doing better in math. Then you scowl when Quinn yanks the paper out of your hands as the doctor talks to you, and for a brief second you question your sanity at asking the audiologist if Quinn could join you. _She's_ in calculus, so of course she understands what she's reading, and that's why Quinn's eyes are wide and her teeth are worrying her trembling lower lip as the audiologist explains that you are sixty percent deaf in your left ear, but luckily you've only lost twenty percent in your right.

_Luckily._

You ask the audiologist if your hearing can be recovered. The logical part of you knows that it's a dumb question, but the Rachel Berry that was nursed on Broadway tunes has hope. The audiologist shakes his head. Once it's gone, it's gone.

You lie to Quinn on the way to the parking lot and say that you're fine, that you're Rachel Berry, for goodness' sake, and this? Totally isn't going to break you. She looks at you, but doesn't push the issue, and when you get home you know she lets you touch her in all the best places because she's worried about you. But Quinn is home, Quinn is safety, Quinn is… the chance to forget. You take that chance when you can, whether it's over slushies, glee, or… this.

Later that night she holds you when you break down, because as you were watching television you had to turn up the sound, and you see Quinn, out of the corner of your eye, wince at its volume. It all starts coming together for you then: the constant ear infections you had when you were little, the allergies, sitting up front in classrooms so you wouldn't have to strain to hear the teacher, the way you had to press your cellphone to your ear, even though the volume was turned all the way up. The way Quinn would eye you as you listened to your iPod, then remark casually that maybe you ought to turn it down?

"You'll ruin your ears!" she'd laugh, smiling lovingly at you, and you know she regrets it, now.

But it's too late, she was right, and you did.

You kind of freak out before the CT scan, which results in Quinn totally making out with you to "calm you down." You think that you should freak out more often. She can't go back with you but she holds your hand until they call you, and you wonder how you ever got through anything in your life before Quinn. Which is weird, considering that she was the cause of a lot of it. But things are different now; she's different, you're different, and the past doesn't matter.

It's the future you're terrified of, now, as you lie on the table and feel it move, sliding you backwards underneath the camera. You freak out again and move, and they have to do it again. So you clench your hands to your sides, close your eyes, and think of Funny Girl.

That just makes it worse.

You go back to the ENT, but this time, you won't let Quinn go with you. Her face registers hurt, then anger, then returns to hurt, and you feel it again: that ache in your heart that you get when you want to say something, but the words just won't come. It doesn't happen often – you're Rachel, after all. But when it does happen, it's raw and you'd do anything to stop the tears that are forming in Quinn's eyes. You can't, so you just get in her car and drive, leaving her on the sidewalk, with your dads, in front of your house.

You can't even pronounce the word, and your doctor has to repeat it three times, each time slower. Cholesteatoma. For some reason, after that, you have such striking clarity that you wonder why the hell you're in the ear, nose, and throat doctor's office and she's telling you that you have a destructive growths in both ears that are going to get bigger if left untreated. And the only way it can be treated is through surgery. You sit numbly and sign the papers, then write the time that you need to be at the hospital in your dayplanner.

On the way home, you turn on your cd player, to the glee mix cd that Kurt had made everyone. You turn the knob until it won't turn any more, grateful for the pain in your ears and the steady thump of music coursing through your body. You think about all the things you've missed out on, and worry about what else you'll miss. The glee kids surrounding you, their voices raised and happy in more-or-less perfect harmony. Pitch doesn't matter now. The sound of the wind chimes on your front porch, the rain and thunder, wind rustling through the trees as you walk home from school.

On the upside, you won't hear the jeers anymore. You won't hear _manhands_ or _treasure trail_ or _Rupaul_ anymore – even though you hadn't heard it much at all lately, except from Santana until Quinn had growled and advanced on her so quickly that for the first time in her life, Santana Lopez _ran_. You won't have to hear football players laughing at you or anyone else, won't have to hear some poor Rachel Berry Jr. get the beatdown in the middle of the hallway.

And that part of this whole thing, at least, is a dream come true.

When you get home, Quinn is sitting on the couch watching television, trying desperately to look like she hasn't been crying for the last two hours, and failing miserably. You don't say anything, just sit close to her and rest your head on her shoulder while handing her all the brochures and information that the doctor gave you. Quinn is like a barracuda when it comes to your health, devouring any piece of information she can get her hands on. She flips through every single bit of it as your gaze turns to the television. Your brow furrows when you see letters and text scrolling on the screen, and you jump up and run to your room (with Quinn in pursuit) when you realize she'd turned the captioning on.

"I thought it would help!" she cries, standing there looking at you sitting on the edge of the bed. She seems so helpless, blonde hair tousled and in her face, her mouth curled in pain and mascara running. You think simultaneously that you should leave, because she doesn't deserve this; and that you can't leave, because she's never looked more beautiful to you than she does right now.

"I thought it would help," she whispers as you stand up, and you can't do anything but take her in your arms and kiss her until she stops crying, but then it's your turn to sob and be comforted, even though there's no comforting this, this one thing that will break you, the one thing that you value above the stardom, the fame, the music.

You can't even bear to look at her as the words leave your lips and hang in the air.

"I don't want to forget your voice."

That night Quinn makes sure that every sigh, every moan, every word that escapes her, as your hands roam her body, is directly against your ear.

You try to keep up the essence of Rachel Berry in the hospital before your surgery, causing Quinn to roll her eyes at you more than once.

But she giggles at you whenever you're given something to relax, and you scoff.

"Please, I'm Rachel Berry, this kind of stuff doesn't affect…. Ooh, pretty colors!"

The surgery takes three hours. When you wake up you're alone and you try to get up, but kind hands press you down, and your dads and Quinn are waiting for you up in your room. Your dads smile and coo over you, then excuse themselves to get something to eat. Quinn sits next to you. She strokes your hair and feeds you ice chips, looking at you with the most loving expression as she quietly breaks your heart.

The growth destroyed the majority of the inner ear bones on your left side, and you're now completely deaf in that ear. The right side is not that bad, yet, but it will only get worse. They can fit you with a hearing aid, but the doctor predicts you'll be deaf by the time you're twenty-one. Deaf by the time you and Quinn would be able to begin an actual real life together, just the two of you.

You turn away from her and beg her, through clenched teeth, to leave you.

You cry yourself to sleep, and when you wake up sometime around midnight, you feel Quinn next to you in the bed, her arms wrapped around you from behind.

When she wakes up and finds you watching her, she yawns and smiles, but the smile fades when you snap that you're defective, or at least going to be, that you can't offer her any kind of life if you're deaf (even though you know that's not really true), and she should just get out while she has the chance.

She stares you down with those icy hazel eyes that you remember so well, and says, "Shut up, Berry."

You do.

Then follows two weeks of Quinn not letting you leave the bed, which is torture, and not letting you touch her, and that is pure _hell_. When you finally feel your equilibrium return enough to creep downstairs, Quinn rushes to meet you halfway, glaring at you, and you just smile and shake your head.

Then you see the books.

Five of them, stacked neatly on the coffee table, and another, open.

Sign language.

You stare at her. She chews her lip, looking uncertain. You look at her, at the books, and back at her. She has fear mixed with the love in her eyes, and you don't blame her, given the way you've acted for the last few months.

Glee. Broadway. Stardom. It just doesn't matter anymore. You'd give it all up, for her.

You're not the only one surprised when you raise your hand, with your thumb, index finger, and pinky extended.

_I love you._

Quinn's smile lights up her face, and tears wet her cheeks as she raises her hand, touching a thumb, index finger, and pinky to yours.

It's the only sign you'll ever need.


	2. I Will Remember

Her voice has always been loud. Obnoxiously so, you'd once thought.

Then you fell in love with her, and that voice.

The way it would flow over you, into you, through you… the way that every time she sang, it seemed as if it was just Rachel and you, alone in the world and outside of it.

The way that she would whisper words just for you, her fingers spelling out want and love on your body, her voice dark and husky, a decibel no one but you knew she could reach.

But now… her voice is even louder.

She doesn't notice how the people around her wince. You're glad that she can't hear it when Kurt mutters something to Mercedes about gagging her.

Rachel's voice has always touched the rafters when she sings; now it seems as if she's trying to bring the roof down on everyone's head. Schuester seems annoyed; he looks at you as if to say "Fix it."

You don't know how.

You've talked to Rachel's dads, because of course they've noticed it too: the loudness of her voice, her radio and the television; the constant need to repeat what they say so that she'll hear it; how her assumption of what they've said is twisted and _wrong_ – because she keeps missing the important words.

So when Rachel has to ask Kurt to repeat something for a second time at glee practice, you catch up with her afterwards, in the hallway. It's the first time you've ever held her hand in school, and you know it startles her.

But her shock fades into fear when you lean in and softly whisper against her left ear – the one that seems to be the worst.

"You need to go to the doctor."

Her eyes darken and you steel yourself for an epic Rachel Berry rant… but to your surprise, she visibly deflates and clings tighter to your hand before she just nods.

At home, you throw yourself into phone books, looking up names; and then onto the internet, researching reviews of those names. Rachel has always laughed at how obsessive you are when it comes to her health.

She doesn't realize that you refuse to forget what you used to do to her. The insults, the name calling, laughing every time cold corn syrup and ice struck her face.

And if caring about Rachel Berry's health to the point of obsession is your penance, then so be it.

Rachel insists on calling herself to make the appointment, so you sit next to her on the bed as she dials the number on her cell phone.

When she quietly says, to the receptionist, "I think I'm losing my hearing," you take her hand and squeeze.

You hate doctor's offices, but when she asks you, chewing on her lower lip and looking scared, you know you're going with her. You sit in the waiting room with her, ignoring her offers of magazines; your eyes scan the wall of brochures, full of terms you don't understand, and drawings that make bile rise in your throat. You hate the peculiar smell that these places have; they remind you of death and tragedy and the soft feel of baby weight in your arms.

More than anything, they remind you of emptiness.

And Rachel's eyes are empty as she takes it all in, chewing on her lower lip.

You haven't prayed much since your parents kicked you out of the house, but you think today might be a good day to start again.

The two of you don't really talk, until you notice that she has tears in her eyes. You tuck your lips next to her ear, kissing the shell of it before you speak.

"It's all right, baby, it's all right, everything's going to be fine. I love you; you're going to be okay."

You pray that what you're saying is true.

Rachel hisses in pain when the doctor's fingers are on her ear, tugging it in order to shine the light inside. You don't realize you've growled until the doctor quirks an eyebrow at you and Rachel rolls her eyes, patting your hand.

You didn't even know that eardrums could rupture; you have to fight off a laugh because the _very idea_ reminds you of how Finn plays the drums. You know the reaction _that_ would get you from Rachel, and you're worried, anyway, because there are audiology appointments to make and CT scans to schedule.

And for a girl who hates doctors and hospitals, you know you'd take Rachel's place in a heartbeat.

Since you can't, you also know you won't leave her side.

So it's a knife in your gut when she refuses to let you go to her second ENT appointment with her. You sit in the living room, idly flipping through the channels and not really paying attention. The results from the audiology test glare harshly up at you from the table. It's grotesquely funny to you, how something as important as a person's hearing, something so important to a person's _life_ can be reduced to bar graphs and circles, a simple phrase reducing it to cold, analytical fact.

Severe conductive hearing loss.

The tears start when a sudden realization strikes you.

_Will she still be able to sing?_

You force yourself not to worry about it, and when Rachel comes home and loses it when she discovers you turned on the television captioning, the only thing on your mind while you hold the crying girl in your arms is _Rachel_, soothing _Rachel_, protecting _Rachel_…

Making sure Rachel doesn't forget your voice.

Cholesteatoma. The word rattles in and out of your brain like a snake, as you sit in the hospital waiting room with Rachel's dads for three hours, while Rachel is in surgery. You'd looked it up, as you always do with things involving Rachel that you don't know, and the pictures are gross, frightening, the prognosis doing nothing to soothe you. The list of complications doesn't do anything to assuage your fears.

Dizziness. Meningitis. Facial paralysis. Brain abscess. Spreading of the cyst into the brain.

You know that if things don't go the way you want them to, it'll be surgeries every six months, hearing aids, and possibly, eventually, complete deafness.

The doctor comes out and a warm arm is around your shoulders as he explains that your worst fears are coming true.

_How are you going to tell Rachel_?

Her dads volunteer, but you shake your head.

You won't let anyone else tell _your_ Rachel that her inner ear bones have been destroyed, that she is deaf in one ear, and will be completely deaf in both by the time she's 21.

One hand is gentle in her hair, the other feeding her ice chips; you hope your voice is warm and soft because the look in Rachel's eyes is slowly killing you. You have to fight to keep from breaking when Rachel turns away from you and begs you to just leave.

When Rachel cries herself to sleep, you slip in behind her and curl your body around her. Take it in, take the pain, take the fear, take it on yourself so Rachel won't have to deal with it. Your mind fades back to your childhood, bible verses drilled into your head with a fatherly harsh hand, and you never truly understood the meaning of some of them until now.

Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.

"Father," you whisper into the darkness. "If it is thy will, take this cup from her. Give it to me instead. Nevertheless, thy will be done."

Rachel's voice is harsh and angry when she wakes up and again orders you to leave her.

It's the first time you've ever refused her.

The library of William McKinley High School is woefully inadequate for the research you need to do now; you're grateful for the Lima City Library, and you take six books home. While Rachel is sleeping upstairs you flip through them, and it hits you.

She'll be deaf by the time she's 21.

After that, Rachel Berry, who could sing before she could talk, may never sing again.

You cry when she signs that she loves you, because you love her so much it hurts, and you're just so scared.

You start listening to every recording of Rachel you can get your hands on. From her first recital as a 7-year-old, to even those MySpace videos that you'd once hated. You're glad that she let you delete your comments. The tears fall fast and hot as On My Own fills the guest room that had, at one time, been your bedroom – before Rachel's room had become _our room_. You don't sing along like you usually do; you put on your headphones so that the sound of _Rachel_ seeps into every part of your body.

And you sob.

You don't realize that Rachel has entered the room until you feel the headphones being lifted off, and she is kneeling at your feet with a hand on your knee, looking up at you with concern written all over her beautiful face, silently asking you what's wrong.

You shake your head. "I don't want to forget your voice."

Because you don't what this _is_, you don't know how this _works_; you're pretty sure she won't be able to sing again, but that doesn't even _matter_.

What matters is Rachel's laugh when something is funny. The excited way she talks about something in glee. The soft "Good morning, love," whispered into your ear as the sun slipping into a bedroom window reveals a tender body curled against yours. Gentle giggles when you tickle her; quiet moans when your fingers dance over every inch of her.

The way you know, just by the sound of her voice, that no one will ever understand you – will ever _love you_ – like Rachel Berry.

Shock registers on her face, before her own tears start. She stands up and takes your hand, leading you to the bed.

And as she undresses you and takes you over the brink, every word, every sound is in your ear, meant only for you.

But then something begins to happen, and you're not sure how to make sense of it.

Rachel starts pulling away from you, and you're stuck in this helpless limbo of anger and confusion, jealousy when Rachel keeps whispering to Artie in glee practice, and he nods and gives her a high-five. She stops riding home with you after glee practice, making up an excuse that you both know is lame, something about needing to help Schuester with his woeful skills of song selection.

You've seen Schuester twice leaving the parking lot before you've even pulled out, and you know Rachel is lying to you.

She knows that you know, but she doesn't say anything.

Finally, one night you angrily tell her that if she doesn't want you anymore to just tell you, because you just can't take _this_.

She stares at you, her eyes wide and unreadable.

She says nothing, and you spend the night crying in the guest room.

When you wake up that Saturday morning, something glints in the sunlight, on the pillow next to you.

You pick up the cd case; against the harsh gold of the cd are words, carefully scrawled in black sharpie.

**For Quinn, so you will remember.**

You slip the cd into your laptop; the headphones are securely over your ears when Rachel's voice speaks to you.

"Hi, baby. I've been working on this with Artie after glee practices. I hope you like it. I love you, Quinn."

Your hand cups your mouth and your tears soak your fingers as that _voice_ floods your ears. Rachel's laugh when Artie tells her a joke. Her soft, gentle voice as she says things that only she knows, that only _you_ know (and you think that Artie better damn well have been _out_ of the recording area when she was saying those things), and around it all, Rachel's _singing_.

Songs you love and know well, songs you've never heard before but love because Rachel's singing them, Rachel acapella, Rachel backed with Artie on the guitar. The songs lack their usual ceiling-busting power, because this is the way that Rachel sings only for you: soft, muted and low, an element to her voice that sends shivers down your spine.

You're crying openly when you reach the last song on the cd, one of the last songs you heard before a hospital and a pretty baby with brown hair and her daddy's eyes changed your life.

Before Rachel came into your life in full force after Regionals, and changed _everything_ you thought you knew about yourself.

And then once again the headphones are being lifted off and you're being lifted to your feet, Rachel's arms soft around your waist.

She leans into you and gently sings against your lips.

_Oh girl, you stand by me… I'm forever yours, faithfully_…

Rachel smiles as you rest your forehead against hers. "Don't ever forget that," she says tenderly, kissing you.

You kiss her back.

She doesn't need to worry.

You will remember.

_Faithfully._


	3. Teach Your Children Well

The first time someone calls your mommies that word, you are five.

When Momma leaves her job at the college – she teaches people about books – and picks you up after school, she asks you why you look so sad. You kick your little legs (Momma says you were graced with Mom's height gene, whatever that means) against the car seat, ignoring the movie playing on the little drop down dvd player in the back of the van.

You ask her what the word means.

You recognize that look in your Momma's eyes and you know she's angry. Sometimes she gives you that look, when you forget to pick up your toys or you say no to her when she tells you it's time for bed. Other times that look is for Mom, when fingers are flying way too fast for you to understand. Either way, the look in Momma's pretty hazel eyes never lasts that long.

That day, it lasts until you get home, and both Momma and Mom are sitting on the couch, and Mom has you snuggled in her lap.

"Mom? Are you and Momma mad at me?" you ask.

"No, Levi," she signs, and kisses your forehead. She looks tired; Mom works as a special music teacher at a school for deaf children, and you know she loves it, but it can be "exhausting," Momma said once.

"Levi," Momma speaks to you, and signs for Mom. "Who said that word to you today?"

Mom nudges your Momma. "What word?" she signs.

You can hear Momma sigh, and slowly, her fingers spell it out into the air.

**d-y-k-e-s**

Joey Casone said it on the playground during recess, you tell your parents then. He said that you had a Mom and a Momma because they were dykes, and it was gross. That you needed to watch out or you'd be gross just like them. And when you'd told your teacher Mrs. Hamilton about it, she'd just told you to ignore it, and that you'd better get used to hearing that word.

Mom makes a funny noise and now _she_ looks mad, and you're really scared, because you must have done something _wrong_. And then you're thumped on Momma's lap while Mom paces up and down the floor, signing for all she's worth, and you're still not _that_ good at understanding her when she signs – or _talks_ – so fast, but you think that you see the letters a, c, l and u pretty well.

"Mom likes those letters a lot," Momma whispers into your ear and nuzzles your cheek, then tickles your belly.

You giggle, and she sets you on your feet and pats your bottom – you swat her hand away because you're _five_, not a _baby_ – then tells you to go play until dinnertime.

You can't help but peek your head out your door a few minutes later, and you see your Mom holding Momma on her lap, rocking her as she cries, like she does for you late at night when you have a bad dream. And Mom doesn't talk a whole lot anymore, because she can't hear how loud she gets sometimes, but you know Momma doesn't mind right then because Mom keeps her voice low when she says "I love you, I love you" over and over into Momma's ear.

Mom sounds a little rough but kind of pretty, you think, before you go back to playing with your soldiers.

When you're eleven years old, Mom and Momma think you're old enough to walk yourself and your little sister Amelia home from school, but you're pretty sure that's about to be revoked, as you come into the house with your arm around a crying Amelia, and Mom's mouth drops open when she sees your black eye.

Momma swoops Amelia into her arms and takes her into her bedroom to calm her down; you get to sit on the couch, almost cowering, as Mom paces and angrily signs to you.

You might be taller than she is, even at eleven years old, but she's _Mom_ and she can put the fear of God into pretty much anyone, if she gets mad enough.

"Violence is never the answer, Levi," she says, and she speaks a couple of the words as she signs. You know that Mom has stayed in speech therapy ever since she lost her hearing, so that she can keep some use of her voice.

She doesn't sing anymore, but she'd made cds for you (her "little man," she called you on the cd) and for Amelia ("baby girl") when she was 19 years old and things started to get worse.

On the cds, Mom sang a couple of songs, gave you "words of wisdom," as she called them. She'd even read a couple of children's books, bedtime stories, in between each song.

Neither Mom nor Momma knows that you and Amelia have put those cds on your ipods; and sometimes you listen to it late at night when everyone has gone to bed. Now you know Mom's voice is _beautiful_, and you're kind of mad at whoever decided that she couldn't sing anymore.

Or hear.

But Mom's still going at it in her lecture, and Momma hasn't come out of Amelia's room yet, so you know this is bad. You just sit there without a word and let her ground you for a month for fighting with Jason.

Just as Momma comes out of Amelia's bedroom, Mom asks you the question you don't want to answer.

"Levi, honey, why did you hit Jason?"

You look at her and you might be eleven years old but all you want to do is cry, and the look of frustration on her face is replaced by worry when a tear slips down your cheek.

But you grit your teeth, and you look her straight in the eye as you speak slowly.

You are not going to sign _this_. You can't do that to her. The words are bad enough.

Maybe if she can't hear them it won't hurt as much.

"He called you a deaf retard, Mom."

You go to Amelia's room to play with her before dinner, and soon she starts laughing again and forgets about what happened that day, forgets about seeing you go after a boy who was nearly a foot taller than you and weighed twice as much.

When you come out of her room to go to the bathroom, you see Momma on the couch with Mom on her lap, rocking and singing to her as Mom sobs.

Momma's voice is pretty, too, you think.

It hurts to know that Mom can't hear her, hasn't been able to hear her for fourteen years.

Later that night, you listen through your headphones to Mom singing I Dreamed a Dream, and you hate God.

When you hear her voice say "I love you, my little man," you don't care that you are _eleven_ years old and that you are a _boy_. You bury your face in your pillow, and you cry.

Amelia is fourteen years old when she's given her first solo in a choir recital. You and Momma and your sister laugh at Mom, who is armed for the recital with a video camera, a digital camera, and a voice recorder. Mom just sticks her tongue out at all of you and signs that she has to make sure all of Amelia's performances are recorded, so that she'll have ample material when she needs to make her biopic.

Momma rolls her eyes and pulls Mom in for a kiss, and you and Amelia laugh as you make gagging gestures with your fingers.

Both Mom and Momma look so proud when Amelia takes the stage, and yeah, you might fight with your little sister – a lot – because come on, you're sixteen and she's _annoying_, but the minute she opens her mouth, yours drops open – because she sounds just like Mom.

Momma cries because of that. Mom cries because Amelia's eyes stay on her the entire time, and she signs the words as she sings a Journey song.

When she sings and signs the last word – faithfully – you notice that Momma and Mom are holding hands with their fingers linked tightly together, the electronics forgotten on Mom's lap.

Two years later, you're nervous as you sit up on the stage; you look out over the audience until your eyes land on Momma's hazel ones, and she smiles at you while making a motion that clearly says "stop playing with your tassel." You smirk, but you quit.

Aunt Brittany and Aunt Santana are beaming at you, even though Aunt Santana is trying her best to look bored out of her mind. You know better, though.

Amelia waves at you from next to Mom, who gives you a thumbs-up as she films with the latest video camera in your family. She says it's only because your granddads couldn't be there, but you'd also caught her signing something to Momma about your campaign needing good "the way he was" footage for when you decide to run for president.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming, representing the class of 2036, our valedictorian, Levi Nathaniel Berry-Fabray."

The applause is mild, but you grin when Aunt Santana lets rip with an ear-splitting whistle. The grin fades as you take your place behind the podium, and you look out at your peers, the ones who have, several times, tormented you in one way or another throughout your eighteen years of life.

You don't see them, though. You see your _family_.

You clear your throat and step back from the podium, moving to the left and signing as you begin your speech.

"As we graduate today, we feel like heroes. We've accomplished what we've set out to do in our early education, and we feel like we're on top of the world as we begin taking the necessary steps towards our higher education, towards whatever life chooses to bring us next."

You pause, and once again, your eyes find your family.

"But I want to talk for a minute about other heroes. The heroes that came before us, the heroes that brought us to where we are today, the heroes that I hope will have shaped our future. I want to talk about _my_ heroes." You take a deep breath.

"I want to talk about my mother, Quinn, and her wife, my mother, Rachel."

There's an audible gasp from a few people in the audience, but you don't care. Aunt Brittany has grabbed the video camera from Mom because she's already crying; Aunt Santana takes the camera from her because she's trying to film you upside down.

"Our parents can teach us many things, valuable life lessons that I hope we will carry with us forever, and pass on to the next generation. When I have my own children, I want them to know what Momma taught me: that letting yourself be weak doesn't mean you're not strong. That true courage is standing up for what's right, even when others are fighting to hold you down. That it isn't _who_ you love, as long as you love that person with your whole heart, no matter what life throws at you."

Momma is smiling at you, tears trickling down her cheeks, and her arm is wrapped around Mom's waist, holding her close. Her head is on Momma's shoulder, and the look on her face is full of so much pride you want to run off the stage and hug her.

"When I have children, I want to teach them what my Mom taught me: That always, it is in our greatest tragedy that we find our greatest strength. That you don't have to speak, or even have a voice, to be heard, and that you don't have to be able to hear, to listen. That sometimes the most beautiful song in the world is the silence of a kiss shared with the one you love."

Others are crying, now, even Aunt Santana, and you make a mental note to tease the hell out of her at dinner.

You're crying too, and that's okay.

"Momma, Mom… you are my heroes. No matter what happened, no matter what cruelties life has sent your way, you've faced it together, and never stopped taking care of each other. I love you, Momma," you say. "I love you, Mom," you sign. "Thank you for being my parents. Thank you for loving me. I am so proud to be your son."

You look again down at your peers, the ones who always took the time to make fun of you or your unconventional family. "I hope that all of you have had a hero in your life like I have. If you haven't, just remember: when you walk out of this auditorium, you have a chance to be someone else's hero. Congratulations, guys, we did it."

You don't even hear the applause this time, as you take your seat on the stage again.

Later on tonight, you'll say thank you to your other heroes.

To Aunt Santana, for beating up every single person who dared to make fun of your Mom, once she started losing her hearing.

To Aunt Brittany, who brought you ten stuffed ducks to the hospital when you had your tonsils out – at age _twelve_ – just because she couldn't decide which one you'd like the most.

To Amelia, for _getting_ how hard it could be sometimes to have gay parents, but who stubbornly talked about her two mommies any chance she could get.

For right now, though, all you see are two shining faces in the audience, staring at you with love.

You've been their little man for eighteen years. When you finally step off that stage you'll be just a man, but you won't ever forget how you became one.


End file.
